RED

This is a story I wrote for the NYC midnight Flash Fiction 48 hour challenge. My genre was historical fiction, my object a razor, and the location a bunkhouse.  September I receive a score for judging.

An unusual silence befell the room as Donjera stood by the window. The air was stagnant, damp, and smelled faintly of urine, and she stared out into the bricks. To those who have yet experienced the denial of decision and the terror of confinement, it may have appeared odd to gaze blankly out a window that doesn’t exist. Even a pig dreams of woodland delights.
“Donjera Smirnov?”
She jumped. As she looked in the direction of the man’s voice, she recognized the silence not as peace but of terror, and felt herself blush as all waited for her to move. Instead, she stayed still, as if reluctant to abandon her artificial breeze.
“Donjera Smirnov?” the man now shouted, and began to march toward her.
“Yes” she whispered, eyes downcast. She was a small woman, with near black eyes and dark hair cropped with the back tied in a small bun. The man, graceful and calm despite his shouting, didn’t have the authoritarian sneer that suggests a dangerous core. She wondered how he was able to become part of the Cheka.
As she approached the man, he grabbed her arm and lead her from the room.
“You live in your mind, intelligentsia.”
“Yes, comrade.”
As they walked past closed doors, now ghosts of their former selves, once to teach the youth, now with another prerogative, Donjera felt oddly comfortable, considering her circumstances. They turned the hall and stopped before an ordinary unmarked door.
“Tell them the truth. Tell them everything.” He sighed and dropped his shoulders, and his false spirit of intimidation fell with them.
“Yes, comrade.”
He turned toward her and looked at her with a plea in his eyes, an intensity of begging she hasn’t experienced since the last woman was torn from her bunk the night before.
Donjera tilted her head, confused, but he put a finger to his lips and knocked on the metal before them.
“Bring her in,” a woman barked from behind the door. Unlike this gentle man, the voice was hard and direct. It cut through her and she bled fear. He opened the door and shoved Donjera inside, closing it behind him. She could hear keys and the click of a lock.
“Donjera Smirnov?”
She nodded.
“Speak.”
“I am Donjera.”
The woman, dressed head to toe in black, with a long flowing leather coat and gloves, was sitting at a desk and had a folder in front of her.
“A writer. A writer for the counter-revolution. A bourgeois” she spat.
Donjera paused, but remembered the man’s warning, and quickly decided that in this world, you take empathy and run with it.
“Yes, comrade.”
“And does the little brat know the punishment befitting enemies of the proletarian, saboteur of the Bolsheviks, conspirator of Lenin himself?”
“I’m to be executed.” Tears welled in her eyes as she choked out the words, to the satisfaction of the officer.
“You aren’t much fun,” she smiled as she pulled a razor from her pocket. It was then that Donjera noticed the blood staining the concrete floor.
“Ah well, we have more to process. I trust at the moment of death you shall behold the great red wave in awe, and recognize that we are the true army for the people, creating a better world for all of us.”
There was silence, and the Chekist sat there smiling with an internal pride. Donjera felt ill, and suppressed vomit. The woman stood up and opened the door, nodding to the man and pushing her out.
“Next one is named-”
“We have a new one that demands immediate attention,” he said quickly.
The woman’s eyes squinted in a slit of irritation.
“Then bring it in, and take this one,” she pointed to Donjera with disgust, “to the cell with the others. We’ll get rid of them after dinner.”
The door slammed behind her. Her vision became dark and her head swirled, her throat burning as she threw up on the floor outside the office.
“I’m… sorry” she was kneeling, and trying hard to keep consciousness.
The man drew his foot back into a kick, but instead of the blow she expected, he stopped just before actually hitting her, and instead pulled her to her feet, dragging her down the hall.
“Don’t speak and listen. I’m a spy for the white army,” he looked around, speaking under his breath.
“Tonight you and others will be shot. I’ll be there with another officer. Follow my directions and be the last on the left. When the others are executed, I’ll take care of the officer and at this point, you’ll move to the right of the courtyard to a locked door, although tonight, it’ll be open. Go out quickly and don’t draw attention. A woman in a white scarf will contact you.”
“Why?”
He paused, looked at her again, but now with hope in place of desperation.
“Your work is highly valued by the counter-revolution. The people respect you, and your words inspire. We will not allow this reign to dispose another great mind.”
More silence, only interrupted with occasional distant gunfire and a not so distant scream. Initially, she had supported the revolutions, but quickly recognized the danger in ideologies. When you believe in something too much, the line for supporting it blurs. Donjera walked the streets of Petrograd with purpose and confidence, writing furiously about the Red Terror and smuggling out letters to anyone who’d listen. When she was caught, she knew it was over, and an unusual apathy replaced the determination. She left her physical self, and entered her mind instead, a realm she could trust, a place she could exist. Now, a bit of that fire returned. With prospect’s kindling, a spark formed, and she waited for a breath to ignite her.
As she entered the room, death nodded a greeting, and indication tipped it’s hat. Donjera Smirnov would live for now, and continue sending flares of truth into the wilds, making little fires, burning little stories, lighting little hopes.